A good day for writing

Weather like this makes for a great day of writing.

This morning, one of my Facebook Friends, Gwendolyn Stewart, said she "has a manly hero in her new WIP who just took over the story. The heroine might have something to say about that, though. I love good writing days. :)"

Her status started spinning the wheels of wonder inside my head about what constitutes a "good writing day."

Every writer has them. And its more than simply putting down several thousand words.

And just as every writer has a good writing day, ever writer also has their own definition of what a good writing day is.

For me, good writing days are days when the stars fall into perfect alignment, God smiles upon you and the words flow smoothly from your fingertips.

The best writing days for me happen when the weather is gloomy. When many consider it a good day to curl up in front of a fire with a cup of hot cocoa and a good book, I'm in front of my computer working on Heather's story.

My best writing happens when the house is clean and quiet, when the kids are out with their dad, when the phone is off the hook and the scenes and characters speak to me like old friends I haven't seen since high school.

My best writing happens after I've spent 45 minutes on the eliptical, after I've showered, put on make-up and done my hair.

My best writing days happen when I have headphones on and songs by Beethoven, Metallica and Brooks & Dunn follow each other on my playlist, but I don't even notice.

My best writing days are not characterized by the quantity of the words, but the quality of the scenes.

And finally, my best writing days end when I look at the clock on the computer screen and think to myself, "Where on earth did the last five hours go?"

Homecoming

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

But it was never both at the same time for the same person.

I'm talking about high school.

Ahhh, high school.

My husband hated it. I loved it.

Well, my high school experience wasn't all paved with ribbon candy and happy sappy times. Down times certainly existed -- drama among my tight-knit group of friends, experiencing the death of a former schoolmate, sliding 15 feet down a stucko wall and landing on my butt next to a pine bush. (ouch)

But if I could go back and redo any part of my life over again, my senior year of high school would be at the top of the list.

I wasn't a sporto or a prom queen. I wasn't a delinquent -- although in our senior wills and prophecies, I will my extensive criminal record to one of the delinquent underclassmen (!) I didn't classify myself as extraordinarily smart either. In fact, if I had to identify with any of the Breakfast Club characters, I probably would choose the basket case (Ally Sheedy). I spent much of my high school years observing, studying my classmates and the emotions cultivated through the goings-on in their lives.

I credit the writer in me for spending that time observing.

I had about 35 students in the senior class at the private school I attended. Most of the kids in my class had been attending school with me for at least five years. Many of them I'd been friends with for 12 years.

Even though I rarely spoke to some of them, after getting to know my classmates for the better part of 12 years, I grew attached to their features, the sounds of their voices, their personalities.

Sadly, some I haven't seen since graduation nearly 17 years ago.

Lord, where has the time gone?

The featured speaker at our graduation ceremony, Dolph Puliam, told us that once we walked out those doors, we couldn't go home again. Our lives would change, and we would have to find a way to become successful individuals in our own rite.

But I longed for those days. I even tried to go back. Before I started writing for a living, I worked as a librarian at my former high school for about six months.

Although many of my former teachers were still there, it wasn't the same.

Walking down the halls, I expected my friends to come around the corner and ask me if I was ready to go to lunch, if I was ready to skip out on eighth period, if I had any gum in my locker.

Even when I caught the principal/head football coach calling me by my maiden name -- "Miss Hupp, Miss Hupp, Miss Hupp..." "Excuse me Mr. Bellar, my name is Mrs. Harris now," -- it wasn't the same.

I enjoyed my time there that spring. Watching the stars in the eyes of that young senior class as they prepared to step out into the world helped solidify the memories I retained of high school, but it also drove home the reality that I wanted to impress upon them as they turned the tassel on their graduation cap: "You really can't go home again."

It's a long road home tonight

OK, for cryin' out loud. I couldn't wait until tomorrow to talk about the music.

I'm just that excited!

So, here's the scoop...

By the time I met Dana, he had been writing and playing guitar for several years. The extensive list of bands he and his brother, Jesse, started included the likes of Victor Bonehead and The Cabbage Demons (love that name).

He wrote that riff during his teenage years with Jesse. The first time I heard him play that riff, I knew it belonged to something special. I didn't know what, but I carefully guarded that riff like a mother hen from all of the other bandmates and musicians we'd met over the past 16 years we've been together.

Something in the back of my mind told me that riff was a piece to the puzzle surrounding Heather.

Fast forward to fall 2008.

Diligently into my craft. My eyes on the prize now moreso than ever. I will tell Heather's story. I will tell it through words in a novel and through music on a soundtrack. (And here.)

I'd been assigned to shoot video at football games in remote locations of Northeast Nebraska and while driving to Pender --nearly an hour from my hometown -- a phrase popped into my head:

"Well, it's a long road home tonight."

Not only did the phrase fit my Friday night football frenzy, it came with a melody and it reflected Heather's plight.

And that melody stuck in my head for weeks. At night, it crawled into my ears and multiplied until full verses and pre-choruses attached to it and an entire song manifested.

But there was a problem: You know that saying about there's many a slip twixt the cup and the hip? Yeah, I don't know what it means either, but I think it might fit with my frustration when it comes to writing music.

I have a difficult time getting my point across to Dana when it comes to music. I can sing, but I can't play the accompaniment I hear in my head.

But on Saturday, that last piece of Heather's puzzle snapped itself into place and the picture that emerged painted imagery that tendered to me the tenacity to finish the job.

That riff -- the one I've been saving and protecting like a mother hen -- fit perfectly beneath the verses of this song. And my worries that it wouldn't fit together with the chorus that had been nagging at me slipped away when Dana automatically transitioned the song to what I heard.

Talk about magic. We worked on recording it with his 64-track recorder from early yesterday afternoon until late in the night. I need to make some phone calls to find a studio drummer, but I'm hoping to shoot a video and be able to post the song within the next six weeks.

Words cannot express how exciting this adventure continues to be for me. Wow!

Discernment

Give God the lead. He's the one with the machete to clear the path. Need proof? Look at the trail behind you.

Country star Garth Brooks released a song when I was in high school about how some of God's greatest gifts are unanswered prayers.

I don't think God leaves prayers unanswered at all. He just answers them in His own way.

Case in point: Nearly a year ago, I sat in front of my computer and prayed, "Now, God, through hindsight I understand that you've led me down this path to be a writer for a reason, but I need some direction and encouragement that what I'm doing is right."

The next day, I had a request for partial of "Long Road" in my inbox.

With the feeling welling within me that I finally had something right, I stopped sending query letters to other agents. For four grueling months I waited for this agent to let me know: Yay or Nay.

I prayed: "Please God, let this work out. Let this agent be the one who says yes. Let this finally be the step forward for which I've been waiting."

In May, I received my answer: "Nay."

And nothing else -- or so I thought.

The funny thing about that time I spent praying about my writing, I also made connections with other writers. Including one -- and you know who you are -- who gave me some harsh, but needed and helpful, criticism.

In a nutshell, she said: I don't understand your direction. What's your point?

Oddy enough, the very thing for which I'd been praying was the one thing I lacked.

At first, I recoiled at the suggestions she made because it would take so much more work. Had I not just finished writing 92,000 words? Following even part of what she suggested would mean major reconstruction.

But Heather (my mc) is a driving force in my mind. Sometimes, strangely, she's my voice of reason, and when I lay down in bed at night, I heard her voice as clearly as any other saying, "You know those suggestions put all of the pieces of this puzzle together. Try it. Do it. You'll be amazed at how it works."

Let me tell you, folks -- 60,000 words and 21 chapters into this story, this rewrite on Long Road has been like tightening the laces on my favorite shoes.

It's an awesome fit. Everything suddenly makes sense. Characters and relationships I'd never felt comfortable with before suddenly feel great. A melody that has haunted me for nearly 17 years now has its place in my songlist (more on this tomorrow).

God answered my prayers. Not necessarily with the ideal answer, but He's definitely given me direction.

That's not an unanswered prayer. But it's definitely a gift.

Goodbye is forever

No secret here...I never liked elementary school.

Actually, that's probably not a strong enough statement.

As one of those girls who never fit in with the "in" crowd, I hated elementary school with a passion. I used to have wonderful dreams about my mother waking me up in the morning and telling me I no longer had to go to school because it was destroyed in a huge tornado or earthquake or some other natural disaster.

Fat chance.

The building was a fallout shelter for nuclear war. Mother Nature would have had to put in overtime to bring that three-story brick beast down.

Early next year, my dream will come true. Having fallen into disrepair, the neary 90-year-old building will be razed in early 2009.

Ironically, I'll be sad to see it go.

It's not like I won't miss it either. I work less than a block away from where the old school sits, and the sight of it greets me every morning as I pull into the newspaper parking lot.

I'm not sure why I'm sad to see it go.

Nostalgia, maybe?

Perhaps it's because since the day I left high school, I slowly began to find myself, establish my own identity and realize that no one I thought was in was really ever that in.

Maybe it's because it's only one more reminder of what the speaker at my high school graduation, former NBA star Dolph Pulliam, said, "You can't go home again."

And sometimes, that's all I want to do.

And the battle rages on . . .

****Today’s blog post is dedicated to my uncle and my father-in-law and the other Vietnam war veterans who fought courageously on the field and continue to fight the anguish in their hearts and minds.****

Do you remember the buzz surrounding that the Oliver Stone flick back in 1986?

Its tagline was: “The first casualty of war is innocence.”

Carrying an “R” rating, I wasn’t allowed to see it.

Although I had never been a fan of war movies, accolades from the media and from my own family members piqued my junior-high curiosity about the blockbuster, “Platoon.”

“It’s too real,” my sister told me. “You’ll have nightmares.”

Her warning didn’t keep me from catching it when it appeared on HBO several months later. Years later, this scene – with Willem Defoe’s hands outstretched toward heaven and the strings of Barber’s Adagio playing beneath – remains vivid in my mind. Trivia: One of the characters in "Long Road" is named after Defoe's character in this movie.

(CAUTION: This clip contains language and scenes that are not suitable for the young. Keep in mind, it is a war movie and pales in comparison to what veterans really faced.)




As a 13-year-old, I couldn’t fully comprehend the nightmare that what I watched played out in varied forms in real life for many Vietnam veterans.

Later in life, I learned that when veterans returned from Vietnam they were treated in a less than dignified manner for carrying out the orders assigned by their commander-in-chief, the figurehead elected by the people who taunted them upon return.

It was a time and place those of us who have not served will never understand. And I’m deeply sorry for those who returned to be spat on and jeered.

The wounds of war run deep. Several decades later, many Vietnam veterans still refuse to talk about the horrors they witnessed.

What must it have been like to watch your fellow soldiers fall to the rat-a-tat of gunfire? What must it have been like to live in real fear that each day might be your last?

The same nightmare, I’m sure, lives on for all veterans. We will never know the true cost.

For as long as I live, I will pray the winds of war never blow across the American plains.

To all veterans, may God bless you and heal you.

* * *
This blog is reprinted from Kat's work blog: www.ndnform.com/blogs

Meat always comes first

Eating disorders run in my family.

My father has one. My mother has one.

Thank goodness they're not the same disorder, or my sisters and I would be screwed by that dominant weird eating gene.

I first recognized my father's eating disorder at a young age: He puts only one item on his plate at a time.

My three sisters and I would gather around the table for a nice meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and corn and marvel at how my father would fill his plate with one item and finish it before starting another.


The meat always came first. He'd gobble it down, and then plop down a large spoonful of mashed potatoes. The vegetables always followed.
Intermingling of foods was an abomination.
I never asked him why, but I'm sure my mom has had this conversation with him before. Here's how it plays out in my head:

Dad: "You can't mix the corn with the meat."
Mom: "Why not? They all get mixed together in your stomach anyway."
Dad: "But I don't have tastebuds in my stomach."

I don't really consider my father's eating disorder a life-threatening dilemma.



My mother's eating disorder, on the other hand, may get her into trouble. It rears its ugly head during dessert after a holiday dinner. She'll serve up a piece of pie or cake or (insert the specialty sweet here) and reclaim her seat at the table.

But before she eats, she grabs a piece of meat -- ham, turkey, meatloaf, nothing is sacred really -- to eat with it. She claims she can't eat dessert without meat. (Is anyone thinking of a Pink Floyd song right now? How can you have any pudding if you can't eat your meat?) She blames her Dutch heritage. My sisters and I say the Dutch would disown her if they knew she blamed them for such peculiar behavior(especially since she's only 0.00009 percent Dutch.)


I don't doubt, however, that the eating disorders with which my parents are afflicted are hereditary.

I've been told my paternal grandfather used to compartmentalize his food like my dad does.

And holidays with my mom's side of the family is like watching an episode of Fear Factor. No dessert is safe from the unholy union with meat.


And people wonder why I'm obsessive-compulsive.


With the season fast approaching, I've begun preparing myself for the quirks in family holiday dinners. Luckily, my parents, sisters and extended family are comfortable enough to laugh at our own oddities and the poking fun is done on an equal opportunity basis. So, it's actually kind of fun.


Tell me about your holiday dinners.

Renewal

“Be still, and know that I am God” Psalm 46:10

My head still throbs two days after the election. A stressful week, my body hungers for rest.

But not the rest I find between the sheets of my bed.

It's a rest I find only in deep meditation.

I may take a trip to the labyrinth located outside a local monastery in my hometown.

The labyrinth, like the one pictured here, is one of the best places to enter a state of deep meditation.

This is how it works:

A prayer is said upon entering the labyrinth.

As you walk, following the concentric circular path, meditate upon the stresses troubling you.

Reaching the center of the circle, you ask God to remove the burden of those stresses from your life and thank him for the blessings He has bestowed upon you.

As you follow the path back out of the labyrinth, you should feel lighter.

Having left your burdens in the center with God, you should feel rejuvenated as you exit.

It takes about a half hour to do a true labyrinth walk complete with prayers and meditation. The time you spend also depends on how much time you meditate in the center of the labyrinth.


If you have a labyrinth near you, try taking the walk sometime. In some cases, spiritual counselors may be able to help you or even walk with you.

The spiritual cleansing you feel afterward is amazing.

The importance of being me

On Halloween, my 13-year-old told me how one of her friends had the "most awesomest costume ever," but she was disappointed because the friend took it off before the end of her first class.

It was too uncomfortable, she said.

I started thinking about what she said, and it hit me in a profound way.

Many people look forward to donning costumes for Halloween. Adopting a new look, a new identity, can be exciting. But after awhile, the novelty of wearing costumes disappear and they become uncomfortable to the point where we only want to cast them aside.

The same could be said for pretense in our daily lives.

How many times do we put on a costume or facade, pretending to be something we're not just to fit in with the crowd? When the novelty of these new friends or this new scene wears off, it isn't so fun and can become uncomfortable.

Granted, this is something I probably should have pointed out to my teenage daughter. Especially considering she's at the age when temptations to fit in can become overwhelming and could lead to poor decision-making.

Many times in the past, I've tried to impress upon Molly the importance of being herself is the only way she will become comfortable with who she truly is. It took me a long time to reach that place; in some ways, I'm not sure I'm completely there.

Are you?

Have an awesome day!